Thursday, June 12, 2008

Reflections on a Gift of a Watermelon Pickle

While taking our afternoon constitution around and around the third floor of our building, a co-worker and I started talking about some baking plans. We talked about pies and making itty-bitty one-bite versions. And then we talked about making jam.

I loved freezer jam as a kid. My mom and I would go out to Phillips Road in Webster and spend a morning at a U-Pick gathering basket upon basket of warm strawberries. I would proudly hold up large berries I found that were almost obscene with how deep red and luscious they looked.

Later in the day, we would begin the cleaning process. I would be set at the kitchen table with a paring knife, wooden cutting board, and two bowls. One would hold the washed strawberries, the other the strawberries after I quartered them. Every so often my mom would check in and admonish me to cut especially large berries into smaller pieces before pouring cupfuls of white sugar onto the growing pile of cut-up redness.

My next job was to decimate the berries, sugar and some lemon juice into a sugary conglomeration. When my mom wasn't looking, I'd dip a finger in to taste the fresh tartness and refined sugar exploding in my mouth. That flavor could instantly remove me from a frigid Autumn day to sitting at the kitchen table, watching a cutting board turn red with sweet juice underneath my careful hands that turned fruit into childhood memories.

Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle Received from a Friend Called Felicity- John Tobias

During that summerWhen unicorns were still possible;When the purpose of kneesWas to be skinned;When shiny horse chestnuts (Hollowed out Fitted with straws Crammed with tobacco Stolen from butts In family ashtrays)Were puffed in green lizard silenceWhile straddling thick branchesFar above and awayFrom the softening effectsOf civilization;

During that summer--Which may never have been at all;But which has become more realThan the one that was--Watermelons ruled.

Thick imperial slicesMelting frigidly on sun-parched tonguesDribbling from chins;Leaving the best part,The black bullet seeds,To be spit out in rapid fireAgainst the wallAgainst the windAgainst each other;

And when the ammunition was spent,There was always another bite:It was a summer of limitless bites,Of hungers quickly feltAnd quickly forgottenWith the next careless gorging.

The bites are fewer now.Each one is savored lingeringly,Swallowed reluctantly.

But in a jar put up by Felicity,The summer which maybe never wasHas been captured and preserved.And when we unscrew the lidAnd slice off a pieceAnd let it linger on our tongue:Unicorns become possible again.